the government makes counter-culture fashion

on the ceiling there's a secret door
who's passageway leads to an attic
storing two decades of song
lost, misunderstood, and unheard.
(nevertheless, in the parlor below)
[they] rejoice in a chameleon's discretion
having discovered there's
no such thing as history.

the policemen at the door identify
themselves with decorated S.S. badges;
screaming, "the big one's a comin'!"
and so [the people] work and slave
to fund the family's new bomb shelter,
but i know they've come to take
my eyes and the words in my head.
eventually, we'll all leave
with nothing left.

why is one star loved while
the others, unnoticed, realize
how utterly alone are they
form clusters and constellations.
alcor and mizar become
the dipper, in return ursa major.
and the hippies sell dr. pepper
feed back of punk rock
wears like sex appeal.

i fear not the end,
but the story told.
[i know]
i am dumb to tell the
hanged man, "they'll ne'er
take away your thoughts," as
they stab me in the back
how many times did i say,
"pleasing [them] is so predictable."

She wore an orchid in
her hair, i remember looking
up and crying out,
"it's better to be dead with You
than alive with me."